


All my life a love-letter.

by Dark_Ruby_Regalia



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Contemplative Noctis, Drabble Collection, From my Older IgNoct AU, IgNoct, Light Angst, M/M, Noctis Lives, Older IgNoct, Smut, Some fluff maybe, existential thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-01-29 06:25:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12625134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Ruby_Regalia/pseuds/Dark_Ruby_Regalia
Summary: My Noctis thinks overmuch; his mind sits heavy sometimes. He's been through a lot.My Ignis whispers mantras of gratitude that Noct is still by his side. He too has been through a lot.(I'll add to this as I have new material; don't be fooled by the x/x chapters bit)





	1. Pressed between pages.

 

Years passed  and autumn marked it with a blaze through the canopy and a shifting carpet underfoot... Noctis mused it a herald and a last breath before the hollow boughs of winter stood alone against their dilute sky. But for now, a rage of colour still, breathtaking all around them.

 

He looked to his Ignis, to the glass in his eyes, and felt a familiar pang of guilt for the gift of sight. And as the trees shed, and the warmth left the air, he felt the same pang of guilt for his gift of life.

 

He buried himself in the lapels of his lover, to shut it all out. They came here almost daily, to this park, and each season he’d secretly take a leaf home, bruising in his pocket. He’d slip it beneath the cover of a book in Ignis’ library, for him to find later. A gift for the blind.


	2. Tell me of the fire in your heart.

 

“Tell me about the snow, Ignis…”

 

Noctis lay across his chest, watching fondly while Ignis’ brow creased a slight furrow with the effort of searching his mind. This was something Noct had recently discovered, and he was yet to grow tired of asking a million times for Ignis to describe things from a memory long-passed, with sight long-gone. It came out like poetry.

 

“It’s cold, Noct.”

 

“No, I mean… Tell me what you remember about it. Tell me what you see now, when you think on it.”

 

Ignis wasn’t entirely comfortable putting voice to it all. There was too much absent, clouded by his experiences since, in which touch and temperature and smell robbed him of colour and light. He felt himself adequately eloquent when all was pragmatic, but this… He fought to find the language for it.

 

“…A scatter of fractions of light, shimmering and impossible, teasing. The air changes. Each breath is large and crisp in my lungs. Life waits.”

 

Noctis feels Ignis tense beneath him, knows he’s asking for things that are buried, that hurt to be raised up again.

 

“What do you remember about glowing coals?”

 

“They smoke profusely when you douse them.”

 

“Iggy…”

 

“…They hold onto a glimmer of hope far longer than anyone gives them credit for. Waiting.”

 

Ignis always dropped to a whisper by the end, exposed and uncertain. Noctis stroked a thumb across his cheek, smoothing worry from his face, palm precisely conformed to fit life-line to jaw-bone.

 

“Tell me about fire then?”

 

“…Ethereal wisps slip through gaps in the dark. Stealing attention, seductive an dangerous, wild in its wooden circle, looking to escape… My cheeks rosy warm; back cold to the world…”

 

Noctis gasps with recognition, and Ignis’ arms wrap tight around him, as they both realise the truth between these words, these thoughts: Ignis has described Noctis three times tonight, laid his heart bare. Shown up the centre of his point of focus. His entire autobiography a love-letter.


	3. The black shirt.

 

 

“Hey Ig, do you know where my shirt is?”

 

“Which?”

 

“The black one.”

 

“I’m blind, Noct; try again.”

 

“The one I wore on our walk the other day. Noodles from the street vendor; sorbet afterwards. Small bar. Dark alley. You and me…”

 

Noodles had been Noct’s choice; the sorbet Ignis’…

 

Ignis felt his cheeks warm, though it wasn’t for remembering the dark alley: post-alcohol boldness, and himself pressed against cool bricks, Noct’s mouth hot and wet at his collarbones, hands pawing at his belt… No, his cheeks were warm because he knew where that shirt was: torn off in bed when they finally stumbled home, lost to the tumult of bedsheets and passions, forgotten in the morning until after Noct had left in a borrowed button-up and Ignis was tidying the aftermath, to re-discover it embedded between folds of well-creased linen…

 

And Ignis had not put it straight into the laundry hamper. He’d pulled it to his chest, ran its hem between his fingers, remembered the way that hem was such a hindrance the night before, when it had caught against chin and ears on its way up and off. He’d collapsed back onto the bed with it pressed to his nose, smelling the body he knew every inch of by taste, by curve, by touch.

 

“It’s… still in the laundry,” he said, as he slipped into his bedroom to secret the shirt away from beneath his pillow, feeling a little bit sheepish and a little bit smug and a lot like he was going to pull another shirt over Noct’s head soon enough.


	4. Buried alive.

 

“After all this time, you still resist me” Noct purred, smooth of voice, mouth so close to Ignis’ neck his lips brushed against it with each word. By the time he’d reached “resist me”, he was pressed full in a kiss there, and Ignis - prey to the distraction - inhaled with a shiver of contact at his pulse point, letting Noct’s persistent finger finally slip inside.

Noct was held still then, his hand secured by the vice of Ignis’ thighs. He felt the conflict between mind and muscle; watched as Ignis ran a sharp tooth through the groove of scar that sliced a neat line across his bottom lip, and swore to himself that alone could end him, that it’d be a worthy way to go: death by Ignis Scientia’s subconscious habits. Death or climax, at least. Sometimes it felt the same thing.

“It’s not you,” Ignis said, though his mind was hardly on his words. “It’s a resistance to letting go of control, and I can’t help it–”

At that, Noct curled his finger, and Ignis lifted off the bed hips first, part way a baulk at the onset of pleasure, the rest a beg for more. His legs finally relaxed, and Noct could slide deeper, then in and out, teasing a second finger, chasing at slick runaway drips to bring them back to where they’ll be of most use, spreading them around.

“Is that how you see this?” he asked, two fingertips poised to enter Ignis together, and Ignis knew it - he could  _feel_  them - he wanted to let them in. All he managed in response was a nod against Noct’s shoulder, his arm wrapped up against the centre of Noct’s back to clutch a great handful of his hair.

“But you have  _all_  of the power,” Noct whispered, through a nuzzle and a nip. “This is me being consumed by you, Iggy; this is me buried alive…” and those two fingertips found their way, pressed close in the warmth of Ignis’ body, all friction a wet ecstasy as he spread them a little, patiently softening the surrounding grip.

Noctis meant every word of that and more, though he dare not speak it all aloud: that each time he settled between Ignis’ legs, each time he watched himself disappear slowly inside him, each time he was sheathed to the hilt and their bodies were connected by a mess of hungry flesh, and Ignis’ cock was laid out against his belly hard and weeping, bobbing for attention and its want of contact, and Ignis tracing his own body, across chest and down abdomen, to wrap his hand around it to keep it still and to squeeze and just to  _feel so much at once_ ; each time they went through this - as Noctis made the first slow roll of his hips and they both took a breath in unison, and Ignis cried out beautifully beneath him - he wondered what price he’d have to pay for this perfection, thinking nobody should survive a moment like this unscathed, though he’d somehow survived many… It spooked him on some cosmic level, and he’d sometimes try to thrust it clear out of his mind…

And when they were spent and cooling down, with his dick slipped out soft and wet with his own seed, and Ignis was painted with his own pearlescent spurts, Noct was the one wrapped deep in an embrace, seeking comfort for the long minutes after, a sacrifice in the arms of his lover.


	5. Earring.

There were hands holding firm to his hips and hot breath at his neck; lips exploring, a mouth hungry at his earlobe. He gave way quickly, leaning back into the body he trusted would support him. He heard the click of metal against teeth as his earring was tugged, sucked, fiddled with by tongue across lips. He gasped. A new sensation in a familiar sweet spot. 

“I knew you liked it,” he said, though words laboured to find their way. 

“Am I that transparent?” Ignis asked, a low whisper between nips. The long dangle of the earing slipped from his mouth to hit the side of Noctis’ neck, where it stopped at once, held onto his skin by the moisture in a kiss. Ignis licked it up into his mouth again. 

“You’ve been staring at it for weeks,” Noct said. He closed his eyes to focus on the claustrophobia of sounds trapped so close to his ear: the static of his shifting hair; the heavy pant of desire that pulled at his blood; the alternate soft pinch and hard chink of flesh and jewel as each was bitten, laved and tested. 

“It’s been winking at me suggestively all the while. Every time you turn your head, you catch the light.”

Noctis smiled. He’d chosen an earring with a polished stone for exactly this reason. “You lasted much longer without _touching_ than I thought you would.”

Ignis started with a light laugh that finished as a tortured groan. He rest his forehead at Noctis’ temple, catching his breath. “I’m about to thoroughly and utterly make up for that.”


End file.
